Once all of his powers have been returned to him, Jarl exits the spare room and slams its door shut (again).

The lock clicks back into place and all the wards are returned so that Áesta’s stuck—trapped—and unmoving. At least from that room. That’s now mostly destroyed. And will now have to be refurnished.

Jarl sighs.

At least there’s still a bed.

~

The Devil’s Cavern.

Jarl sighs heavily as he snaps a book shut and leans back in his study’s chair. He stares critiquingly at the map splayed before him and rereads the location’s name again. The Devil’s Cavern located at Bailecastle, Ireland. This is where the coordinates of Manus’ weird spell led. This is where they have to go.

Some underwater cave in Northern Ireland.

The sky eyed human groans worriedly. Can his brother even breathe in there? How far down is it, exactly? Jasey is frail; what if… No. It’s fine. Yes, it’s hours away by car but Jarl can fly now and at least they won’t have to leave the country. It’s right there. Jasey is right there.

But what on earth was the witch talking about: prophecy and no joke?

Of course, this isn’t a joke! His little brother’s missing! Kidnapped by some… lunatic!

At least, Jarl assumes it’s a lunatic.

Who else would kidnap a priest’s little brother?

~

Dear Witch,

The coordinates are for an underwater cave in the North: Devil’s Cavern at Bailecastle.

If my brother drowns in there, I swear: I will condemn you.

—Jarl

~

Once he clears away the sent note’s troublesome glitter, Jarl makes himself a meal.

It’s a simple stew; but it’s well seasoned and very filling. He sets aside another dish—partly out of habit—and eats his own before glancing down the hall and eyeing his spare room.

It’s quiet.

There’s no howling or hissing, no raging or rampaging, no screaming or scratching—there aren’t even demands; and, for a moment, Jarl actually questions if there’s even a daemon in there.

~

He’s flipping through a travel guide when his door opens.

Glancing up, he finds the medical half of Witch Doctor entering his home with a grim, almost cold, expression. It’s complimented by the copious amounts of snow that’s settled into his blonde hair and onto his white coat, nestled in the layers and folds of his scarf and pants. Even his glasses are whited out: wiry frames holding up fogged windows that do little to hide the brief glance of green irises towards the locked and warded door.

Jarl smiles, a dark and unpleasant thing, and gestures to the table instead, “Stew’s on.”

The thin-framed man merely nods in response. He removes his scarf and glasses, using the former to clean the latter, while glancing back at the darkened hallway and eerily silent door. He seems overly alert.

“It’s locked and warded,” the brunette quietly assures.

“It’s quiet.” Hagen replaces his glasses so that he may see and then stuffs his scarf into his coat pocket before hanging the heavy article on the rack by the door, “And you are right here. Vhich means you fed it.” Cold, calculating eyes bore into Jarl’s mind as Hagen slowly steps forward, “Ho’ vas it?”

The sky eyed man scowls, face hot with embarrassment, “What kind of question is that‽”

“A perfectly reasonable one.” Hagen settles himself down in the seat across from Jarl and accepts the stew. “Manus speaks very highly of z’at daemon’s skill—not somez’ing to be taken lightly—and you are lonely man. It vould be understandable if z’e feeding vas of a carnal nature.”

“No, it would not!”

Hagen looks up disinterestedly at the sound of wood scrapping against wood—chair scrapping against floor—and remains calm as Jarl glares down at him through the embarrassed and enraged heat reddening his face. He spoons some stew into his mouth, “No?”

“NO! I am a priest!”

“Ja, ja,” the apothecary nods complacently, clearly enjoying the stew. “It must be really cute.”

Jarl scowls and slams his hands onto the table, jostling it and the other, “No! Of course not! It’s vile!”

“Is it?” the blonde asks, almost boredly. He tilts his bowl to get at the last bits of his first helping of holy stew, “Because z’at is not v’at your face is saying right now.”

“I was enthraelled!”

The two share a pause as shuffling can suddenly be heard from down the hall. The root of their conversation is moving about the spare room, seeming to be aware that it is being spoken of. The local holy man blushes while the parish’s medicinal keeper studies the brunette’s expression of guilty denial.

Hagen then smirks into his empty bowl, “Ja; ja you vere.”

“Urg!” Jarl throws his hands up in frustration, pissed and humiliated beyond belief. He kicks his chair back in and stomps almost petulantly back into his small kitchen, clearly wishing to distract himself from the issue. He does this by pulling out a few containers from his pantry and packing away the remains of his classic meal.

The German watches quietly, contemplating.

Then, he stands, too, and joins the holy man in the kitchen. He takes his empty bowl with him and sets it in the sink before rolling up his sleeves and setting about cleaning it. Jarl watches him for a tense moment. Then, he relaxes and refocuses on stowing away his stew.

After several seconds, however, Hagen asks, “Do you actually understand vhat happened?”

The holy man tenses and halts his actions. The snap-on lid in his hands creaks under the strain of his fingers and the stress in his now superpowered body is despairingly palpable; but, as he turns to gaze at the German, it is clear that he is considering the question carefully.

Eventually, he answers honestly by shaking his head.

The apothecary hums and nods back. He then dries his bowl as he explains: “Z’raell is a demonic technique z’at allows daemons to easily feed. Essentially: z’ey release hormones z’at causes z’eir prey to react to z’em. Z’e reaction vill depend on z’e person and z’e daemon; but z’e z’eme is alvays z’e same: passion.” Hagen points at Jarl calmly, unphased by his obvious discomfort, “You, in z’is case, got z’e s’ort end of z’e stick.”

Jarl crosses his arms defensively and mutters, “Clearly.”

Hagen shakes his head, “Nein, mein freund; I mean: raz’er z’an getting avay viz’ mere affection, you vere forced to desire it.” The doctor sets the bowl back into the cupboard and dries his hands before making his way towards the brunette’s study. He gestures for the sky eyed man to follow him as he steps into the room. He slips a book from Manus off one of the study’s shelves and flips through it as Jarl hurries to join him. When he finds the page he was looking for, Hagen calmly shows it to the priest. On it is a drawing—a diagram—of a pentagram with each arm of the star pointing at something: at the top is lust, to its right is desire, on the bottom right is love, on the bottom left is affection, and on the left side of lust is possession.

The holy man squints at it, “What…?”

“Z’ese are z’e five z’ings ve humans can give to daemons in exchange for z’ere services,” Hagen explains. “Your daemon is ancient and z’erefore capable of feasting on even z’e most unpalatable of human passions. You should have been able to just feel affection for it and be done; z’at is vhy Manus picked Áesta for you.”

“Wha…” Jarl furrows his brows, “Then what happened?”

“You vere too disgusted by your affection for it.”